


How Things Are Done

by hakunahistata



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Sam Wilson/Natasha Romanov, Mentions of Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Veterans, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 16:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakunahistata/pseuds/hakunahistata
Summary: Every Thursday morning Sam Wilson drinks his coffee in Washington Square Park before his 8am class, and every morning local dog walker Bucky Barnes ruins it by taking up half the bench and worming his way into Sam’s routine.





	How Things Are Done

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the absolutely [breathtaking art](http://hakunahistata.tumblr.com/post/165850117018/how-things-are-done-words-by-hakunahistata-art) from the talented and darling [jamesborky](https://jamesborky.tumblr.com/).

_September 14_

Every Thursday, Sam Wilson drinks his coffee in Washington Square Park before his 8am Sensation & Perception class at NYU. 

He wakes up at 4:45 for his morning run, before returning to his apartment to shower and eat a small breakfast. He stops by and grabs his medium-sized coffee, one sugar, from Albert at the corner and enjoys the short walk to the park.

That’s how things are done.

Sam loves his pockets of peace. He loves waking up before the rest of the world and taking in the fresh morning air. It’s the little pieces of solace that make all this seem worth it.

In the beginning, when he was just like every other vet that was pushed into a support group, they had discussed small victories. As if a ten-minute run was anything to be proud of. When you could barely get out of bed, though, it was. As Sam sunk lower and lower, he began to celebrate even the smallest victories. He bought milk on his own. He smiled at a passerby without wondering what they were hiding under that bulky coat. The lower he sunk, the kinder he was to himself after those little victories.

Eventually, he dug himself out. The power of therapy and all that, blah blah blah. (He talked a big game but he was not one to brush off how therapy, not when the VA had, quite literally, saved his life. He was, after all, going back to school to better help others.)

Sam still had his Things™, as he called them. He still could only handle having the bare minimum. He liked being able to count all his mugs and glasses on one hand, he was tied to his routine. It wasn’t the same Air Force routine that he still ached for, but it was structure.

So, yeah, he woke up early and ran, and bought the same cup of coffee from the same vendor, and took the same route through Washington Park.

That’s how things were done.

Until _he_ fucked everything up.  

 _He_ , quite literally, sauntered into Sam’s life on this particular Thursday morning with 16 little legs trailing in front of him, four leashes, and one hell of a swagger.

Some people walk the streets, head down, shoulders pulled in to make themselves smaller. This guy was not like those people.

If the four dogs weren’t enough, the metal arm, glinting in the sun was. He was a character straight from the pages of a novel Sam would read the back cover of before putting back in the 25 cent bin; flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, black jeans that had seen better days, beat-up boots, and long hair pulled up in a ponytail. The attitude? Palpable.

“Chowder,” The man whistles, short and high-pitched, before the largest dog, a Pit Bull with a service vest takes the lead beside a black Labrador, tiny Chihuahua, and a…

Sam cocks his head at the smallest, strangest dog he’s ever seen.

“Why don’t you take a picture,” The voice is so unexpected that it takes Sam a moment to realize it’s coming from Mr. Dog Walker, himself.

He’s staring openly at Sam, eyes narrowing as the Pit Bull’s nose points at Sam. The other dogs have taken the pause to sniff the ground, wag their tails, and greet strangers with wide smiles. The dog that Sam had been questioning whether or not was a dog in the first place was straining on his leash to get to him, small grey legs pawing at the air.  

“What is that?” Sam nods towards the smallest of the gang, forgetting that he was an adult and when he saw things he didn’t know, he should be like any other upstanding citizen and ignore it.

The tiny, hairless pup finds some slack on the leash as the man moved towards the bench, where he has the audacity to sit down. On the bench. His bench, reserved for Sam Wilson. (Not officially but it was added to Sam’s very organized mental list of Goals™.)

“ _She_ is an angel.” The man reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, who was happily licking Sam's shoe, body wiggling with the force of its wagging tail. The dog walker looks back up at Sam, obviously offended on behalf of the dog who was more interested in pawing at the bench.

“I mean, the breed?” The dog looked like a Dr. Seuss tree. A Dr. Seuss tree that was smiling up at him. Whatever type of tree this dog was, Sam couldn’t help but smile at the dopey grin, tongue lolling out of her mouth.

“I’ll have you know that Penny here is a world-class singer.” Dog Walker grins, the tense, angry sneer melting into a childlike smirk. He clears his throat and makes a small howl. The tiny mutt’s ears perk up and she, stands up on her hind legs, small paws resting on Sam’s thigh, and starts howling with this intrusive and loud dog walker.  

It’s awful. And loud. And people were beginning to look over. The man didn't notice, or care about all the pair of eyes pointed at him. Sam, however, did care.

“Alright, alright, she belongs in the opera house! There, happy?’

“Extremely,” He stops howling to smile back at Sam. Penny’s howls taper off into small chirpy barks before she loses interest in both Sam and her dog walker and sniffs the ground.

“She’s a Chinese Crested.” Dog Walker smiles fondly at the little pup, eyes softening as he looks at all the dogs, the service dog sitting diligently by his feet.

“And this here is Chowder. She’s mine. The rest are just rentals.” Dog Walker smiles, scratching behind Chowder’s ears fondly. Sam didn’t believe his casual indifference for a moment as he looked back at the other dogs like a mother watched her children.

“Chowder? That’s a pretty odd name for a dog.” Chowder looks adoringly up at her owner, nosing at his hand when he stops petting her.

“It fits her.” He says simply, resuming his petting.

“Pit bulls are excellent dogs. The bad owners are the ones that should be put down.”

“Well, I agree with you there.” Sam raises his coffee cup. Dog Walker nods in return, smiling a little easier.

“She’s smart as a whip, too!”  

Sam snorts, “That makes one of you.”

Dog Walker aims his lopsided, messy smile up at Sam. “Oh, I like you.”

 

_September 21_

Sam wakes up at 4:45 the next Thursday morning and is hyper-aware of every dog he sees on his run. His encounter with the Dog Walker had been brief. A quick exchange that was as confusing as it was entertaining. The man sat with Sam for no more than a five minutes but he spoke to him easily, like they were lifelong friends. The easy rapport wasn’t something Sam had felt since the Air Force.

It was unusual and uncomfortable. A deviation. Sam still wasn’t sure he liked how it had thrown his morning off. The man, who had stuck around without sharing his name, had been oddly captivating. His appearance was artfully thrown together but with the carelessness of someone who had _actually_ just thrown it together. He spoke easily but maintained a distance that Sam appreciated.

Plus, he was brash, and rude, and a tad annoying.

Sam kind of loved it.

He ran a little faster that morning, ate a little quicker, and once he got to the bench, he bounced his leg and waited.

And waited.

He checks his watch, polished to perfection, and frowns. He only had a few minutes before he should start heading to his class. He shouldn’t be disappointed in the first place, not when they were essentially strangers--

“If it ain’t, Tall Dark and Handsome. Sorry, can’t stay and bat my pretty blues at you today. Gotta drop these guys off early.” He grins, Chowder by his side and three other pups happily trotting along.

“Not like you were invited to my bench anyway.” Sam smiles wide at the wayward quintet. “What’s the order today?”

“Dachshund, Lab, Terrier, and Chowder.”

“Chowder isn’t the name of the breed, Ponytail!”

Bucky whirls around, arms outstretched as he walks backwards so he can face Sam.

“Chowder is more than her breed, Uptight Coffee Drinker!”

The coffee is lukewarm but it’s a small price to pay.

 

_September 28_

The coffee is too sweet today. Albert wasn’t there and Sam is thrown off by the change in taste and the deviation to his routine. The young woman who had handed him his coffee had such a nice smile that Sam didn’t have the heart to correct his order.  

His skin feels stretched too tight over his bones, his fingers stiff, and legs clunky. He’s overly aware of the way his arms swing while he walks. He feels wrong, like he’s not really a person. 

Angry at himself, Sam finds his bench and drinks his too-sugary drink to try to pull himself together and fighting the urge to stand up and head home. He’d been doing so well. He hasn’t had an episode in weeks and yet all it took was a slight change in taste and he could feel the anxiety creep up and wrap its tendrils around his throat.

He tried his breathing exercises, frustrated when the bustling outside world interrupted him, and was just about to get up and get to class early when Dog Walker plops himself on the bench beside Sam.

“Lazy.” Sam mumbles before taking another sip of his sugary coffee.

“Uptight.” God, he was uptight. When had that happened?

Dog paws scuff up Sam’s slick shoes, little snouts sniffing and licking at his pant leg.

“Hey Penny.” The Dr. Seuss tree pants happily up at him.

“You’re looking a little worse for wear this morning.”

Sam’s shoulders tense at being called out so effortlessly.

“Coffee’s too sweet.”

Bucky laughs, leaning back, long legs splayed out. “Well, goddamn, call the National Guard.”

Sam snorts, mirroring Bucky and leaning back. “They won’t do shit. Maybe the Army could do somethin’.”

“Nah, they’ll just sweeten the coffee out of spite. We need someone soft...like the Air Force.”

Sam laughs loudly, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising Bucky and himself in the process. 

“Are you military?” Bucky asks, eyebrow raised in intrigue.

“Was. Air Force.”

The smile that spreads across Bucky’s face is actually worth the impending ribbing.

“Son. Of. A. Bitch. I knew there was something soggy about your blankets.” Sam makes a face and Bucky laughs harder.

He straightens his shoulders, hand raised in a poise salute. “Sergeant James Barnes.”

“ _Sergeant_? Get the fuck out of here. Who let your pasty ass actually lead human beings?”

“Smart human beings.” Sam shakes his head. “Eh, I won’t make you call me Sergeant Barnes, though. Bucky will do.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, “Bucky?”

“Hey man, don’t hate. The nickname wasn’t my choice.”

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that my name is as bland as can be. Sam.” Bucky reaches out his metal hand and Sam shakes it, interested and trying not to show it.

“Army?” Sam asks, nodding towards the prosthetic. He shouldn’t be so blunt about it but Bucky was a blunt dude and, god help him, it was contagious.

“At least buy me a drink before you start prying into my psyche.” Bucky smiles, “Jeez, Sam, what are you, a therapist?”

“Maybe. One day.” Bucky raises an eyebrow, eyes narrowing.

“I’m doing my masters in Psychology at NYU.” Sam explains, nodding towards the general direction of the school.

“Have I just become homework?” Sam doesn’t miss his sudden tense, sharp tone.

“I have enough homework with this,” Sam smiles, tapping his temple. “I don’t need to be messing with the Play-Doh in your head too.”

“Good, cause you’re not invited.” Bucky’s lips quirk up in a tense smile.

“So, Air Force? When did you get out?”

“Last year. You?”

Bucky waves mechanical fingers at him. 

“When this sucker took a hike. Just comin’ up three years.”

Three years? He looked so young. Underneath the bravado, he couldn’t be more than thirty.

He didn’t say sorry, didn’t pander because he knew the feeling. The empty sympathetic looks. When people looked at him with pity in their eyes, Sam knew it came from a good place but being on the receiving end of it was just...insulting.

“I got her out of it though.” Bucky says after a stretch of silence, petting Chowder’s head. The dog looks up adoringly at him, panting happily.

“Looks like she got the lesser half of the deal.” Sam mumbles. Bucky nearly pushes him off the bench with bionic fucking arm.

The coffee doesn’t taste _that_ bad.

 

_October 26_

Every Thursday it’s the same. They meet up for a half hour, they bicker and tease each other, Sam gets some human interaction, and then they part ways.

It was never supposed to get _real_. They were friends for thirty minutes, once a week for several weeks. That was it. Sam couldn’t afford another distraction, not if he wanted to give his all to his work.

Bucky apparently didn’t get the memo though, cause he slumps on their bench one crisp morning in October with only Chowder by his side. 

“You're thinking rather loudly today.” 

Bucky doesn’t snipe back. No sarcastic comment followed by easy banter. It makes Sam uneasy. 

“Buck...you okay?” 

Bucky's attention is on his hands, flesh thumb tracing the indentations of his metal one. 

"Broke up with someone yesterday." 

Sam hadn't realized he had been in a relationship. Hadn't even thought it was a possibility. 

"Oh...I'm sorry to hear that." Sam says limply. For someone going through a Psychology program he was pretty shit at giving advice. He shakes himself out of his own selfishness, his own self-made distance. As much as he hated to admit it, Bucky's frown and sad doe eyes were starting to bother him. 

"I didn't know you were seeing someone."

Bucky's frown deepens, "Don't want to talk about it, Sam." 

Sam nods, leaning back and watching people pass them by. 

"I tried dating when I got out." Sam says to his silent audience. "I hadn't been ready for it, though. it wasn't fair." 

Bucky doesn't say anything but he sat up and listened.

"I had just been...so fucking desperate for anything. Any sort of intimacy. Anything to keep me from crying in my mama's kitchen." Bucky's lips quirk up. 

"But getting that close to someone when I was so...so fucking wrecked. I don't think I could have handled it." 

"I wish we fought more." Bucky says suddenly, voice rough.   

Sam leaned back on the bench, the dry wood crackling under the movement as Bucky continued. 

“It wasn't really his fault. I don't know how to talk about my time over there with him, so I don't talk at all." 

"Shit, you certainly talk my ear off." Bucky laughs, leaning back in his chair, legs splayed out childishly, feet curled in at an awkward angle. It was a childish look that didn’t match the broad-shouldered vet that he really was.

“Yeah, yeah I do. Maybe, I’m just full of shit. Spoiled at an early age.”

“By who?”

“Steve.” It's a simple name that speaks volumes.

“Who the hell is Steve?”

Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn't lose any of the rigidity in his shoulders. “Well, fuck, I guess he's my ex now.” 

“I had purpose over there.” Bucky doesn’t look up from the pavement, the toe of his boot waywardly petting Chowder. “It was a gun, but it was still _something_. It was mine.”

"You don't think you have anything here?" Sam asks, quietly incredulous. 

"No." Bucky says it matter of fact, not up to debate. 

It's sobering. It's unacceptable. 

"C'mon, get up." Sam stands up, a surge of adrenaline making him stand before he can register the movement. He leans over and tosses his coffee into the trash. He hadn't even taken a sip.  

"Get up?" Bucky was staring up at him, confused. Chowder lifts her head, wet nose twitching. 

"Yes, get up. We're going to get breakfast." Sam decides on the spot. 

"Breakfast?" 

“Is there an echo in here? Yes, breakfast. C'mon.”

"Sam, I don't—."

“What?” Sam raises an eyebrow at him. “What excuse are you going to give? What do you really, absolutely have to do right now? Because from where I'm standing you're sitting on a park bench moping.”

Bucky blinks. 

"That's all you do is mope on that bench. That's all...it's all I do. We're so used to looking in the rear view mirror that we haven't looked in front of us long enough to pick a direction."

"Are you kidding me with that car analogy." Bucky deadpans. 

"God, shut up! I'm serious. Look, you're willing to throw away your partner because you don't have the balls to look in the mirror every once in a while and admit to yourself that you do have something here." 

Bucky glares, standing up to face Sam and Chowder standing with him, on guard and tense. 

" _I_ don't have the balls to look in the mirror? What about you? One deviation to your morning and you crumble. You're so tied up in becoming this functional, decent Master of Science or whatever, instead of acknowledging that YOU are just as fucked up as ME. You hide behind work and routine. I hide behind my dog and...a lot of sarcasm. But don't, for one second, think that you're better than me because—. Why are you smiling?" 

"Because you're defending yourself." Sam grins, cheeks beginning to hurt from the force of it. His chest feels full, his heart is pumping, and he feels alive, sweaty palms and all. 

Bucky's silent, staring at Sam. 

"I don't think I'm better than you. Well, maybe a little bit, but that's 'cause I don't have a ponytail. I just think we need to...stop. This...moping complacency; whatever it is." Sam laughs to himself and Bucky still just looks confused. 

"What is wrong with you?" 

"I don't know! Call it a moment of clarity, but I just realized that I don't want to feel like shit anymore. I'm not perfect and it's not easy but I think we owe it to ourselves to find something here, whatever it is. I'm tired of wishing I had been left in the sand." 

Sam nods towards the park entrance. "C'mon. Let's get out of here and let's...I don't know, do something _different_." 

Bucky looks at him cautiously, palm resting on Chowder's head. He looked scared of the possibility of different and everything that encompassed. Sam was asking him for more change, more adjustment, more challenges. It wasn't just breakfast. Breakfast led to new plans, new conversations, pushing each other and poking each other's bruises. Breakfast led to lunch and dinner, more days, more appointments, more poking and prodding. It also meant the possibility of improvement. And they wouldn't have to go through it alone. Sam would have Bucky's quick wit, deadpanned stare, and god help him, that was a comfort. 

“I'll only go if I get to pick where we get breakfast.” Bucky agrees, the tension leaving his shoulders. Chowder senses her owner's calm and wiggles her butt in excitement. 

“Fine. But just because you turned those baby blues at me, man. That ain’t cool.” Sam grins, grabbing Bucky's sleeve and tugging him along. Maybe pinching him at the same time. 

“Fine, god, I'm getting up. Is this what recovery will entail? Pinching?! Jesus, I should introduce you to Nat. She’s really mean, too; just your style. You’ll love her.”

“Fuck you, I’m not mean.” Sam smiles, shoving Bucky's shoulder. Bucky shoves him back harder. 

"Man, we're going on a breakfast date now. Does this mean we're actually friends now?" 

 

_January  24_

Every Wednesday, Sam Wilson drinks his coffee in Washington Square Park before his 8am Affective Neuroscience course at NYU.

He wakes up at 4:45 for his morning run, unless Natasha pulls him back into bed. Sometimes he lays around before taking a quick shower. Sometimes he makes breakfast for Natasha; other times they meet Bucky and Steve for breakfast, four to five dogs in tow.

Yeah, it’s a mess, but that’s how things are done.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: I almost titled this "I Love You, Man". All the NYU information is probably, most definitely wrong. My bad. If you liked it, leave a comment! If you didn't, please direct your complaints to HR!


End file.
